Savor
by Ersatz Einstein
Summary: We all have something of the killer in us. Rated T for violence.


The cut is clean. An initial ruddy flow of blood cannot disguise how thin it is. It runs, watery and pale, onto my outstretched hands. Bizarrely, I think of a statue I once saw at a museum, some Renaissance artist, of a supplicant before the cross. The blood is holy, washing my hands even as it makes them sticky just as my nose becomes unbearably itchy.

Killing is easy. It's the neatness that's hard. With a long, flat blade that still gleams, I skin the body, slicing off neat strips of skin and hair. As always, some part of me is astonished by both the difficulty and ease of the task: the hide comes off quickly enough, but sometimes the muscle comes with it. I'll have to go back and scrape again later, if only to salvage some of the beautiful meat.

I wash it, covering the tiny, useless head as I scrub it in the sink's deep basin. I didn't bother to close the eyes, so the peeling lids flap against my closed hand. The unshorn head is soft, even when dampened with water and blood. I loosen my grip enough to give it an affectionate stroke.

The onion and garlic are almost done, sizzling in the heat. Briefly, I wonder what that must _feel _like, what it would feel like for my little entrée, to be popped and sizzled until his skin is a shining gold. The thought evaporates in the steam, leaving me to my next task.

The third knife is different, used for neither slitting a small throat nor removing the skin of a fresh kill. A butcher's knife, pure and simple. Most would immediately associate _this _instrument, above all others, with death. But it has nothing to do with the end. Its existence is past the wall between life and death, and it has grown long and thick on the meat that its protectors have provided. No, the butcher's knife sculpts a new beginning, a clever tomb for the emperor's corpse, which is itself a kind of afterlife. (Consider, what would this body be now without its new purpose? Nothing. Do you see?) Its strokes are like the first's, though, in that they are clean and simple. It divides the sacrifice for the altar.

I slide the meat into the pan, watching little sparks of grease fly onto the countertop. I keep an ear open, ready to lower the heat should I hear the telltale sizzle of the soon-to-burn. Water sends it from the fire to the ocean, drowning in a puddle so immense that its heat is no longer apparent.

How long have I been doing this? Ten – no, twelve years. How long have I been enjoying it? All my life.

The pot is large, more than enough for my ingredients. Meat, onions, garlic – all slide into the pot. An onion sticks to my spatula and I scrape it off, watching the filmy crescent drop into the middle. Hot water coats everything, turning brown with released juices. I turn the stove on, watching with a primitive fascination as a tiny flame blooms under the burner. I pull over a stool, watching to make sure that it doesn't boil over.

"Hey, you!" I look up, trying to conceal my surprise. "Are you falling asleep? Where's the lapin au vin blanc?"

"In the pot. I'm just waiting for it to boil."

"Wait with your eyes open." He pinches his forehead, forcing his face into a sympathetic expression. "I know it's late, but these are the last customers. I'm going now, and you can leave as soon as they're gone. Take a walk, won't you?" The obnoxious bastard wanders off, leaving me alone with thoughts increasingly familiar.

I can't stand him. My life would be infinitely better were he not around. I'm sure of it. I would no longer be a sous chef. I wouldn't have to listen to some fool barking orders. It would be simple. As simple as the dish before me.

I rise, ruffling a somewhat-ridiculous white cap. The doors at the back of the kitchen are nothing like the large, swinging ones at the front. These have to be cajoled and threatened into creaking open. Still, there's something honest about them. Something hard and stubborn. The first door lets me into a labyrinth of back rooms, but I don't linger there for long. I'm looking for the second. It lets me into the one place where I can think, where I don't have to worry about the people holding me back.

The storeroom greets me with its familiar aroma of produce, but it's… muted somehow. Blocked. After a moment of fumbling, I flip the light switch. For a moment, I just stare. Cold, bright plastic covers every inch of the room. My pure, earthy vegetables are still there, suffocated under the pliable sheets.

"Hello." A man's voice, behind me. I reflexively turn, but before I can get a decent look, he has me by the arm and shoulder. A sharp pain. Then darkness.


End file.
